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Thursday, February 27, 2014

The death of ideology. Entropy and
anomie. Everything's fragmenting and people are getting itchy.

Mars is coming, red, rolling low and
simmering. Everyone is in the mood for a fight. Are you in the mood
for a fight? I bet you are. Everyone else is. I am. I feel like
stretching out my arms and seeing who I 'accidentally' slap in
the face. I feel like expanding my hegemony and other people feel
like being free of me. That's a clash right there. I'm getting
worried about the neighbours. I tried to build a 'base' in the
courtyard of the complex but the other residents reported me to
management. I was warned but said I needed the base for my safety.

'Safety from what?'

'From threats.'

'What threats?'

'Your threats.'

'But we're not threatening you.'

'Admit it, you already did.'

'When?'

'When I tried to build my base you
threatened me with eviction.'

'Yeah but you're not allowed build
bases in the courtyard.'

'But I need to.'

'Why?'

'Because you threatened me with
eviction.'

'But you were building that base before
we ever threatened you.'

'Ah ha, you've just admitted that you
threatened me!'

The negotiations did not go well. They
said I wouldn't see reason but I said I had good reason not to see
reason. They asked me what my good reason not to see reason was. I
said that my reason not to see reason was their lack of reason. They said
I'd lost all reason. I chased them away with a flaming broom. I
barricaded myself into my flat. I threw pots and plates out the
window at passersby. They called the law but the law was busy selling
heroin to junkies and then arresting the junkies for buying the
heroin. They called the parish priest but he was busy fiddling with a
kid. They called social services but they said they'd only be able to
make it out the week after the week after the week after the week
after next. They called the E.U. and the E.U called the U.N. and the
U.N. called the U.S. and then the U.S. called the U.N.'s bluff.

Entropy and anomie, like I said. There
is no one left you can trust. There is no place left to jump. It's
the time of the angry man, the mad man, the scattered remnants of
dead men and women and children. The God of War is spinning and causing cranial
electrochemical aggression. It's time to shake things up. It's time
to blow things up. The complex is on fire. The whole world is in
flames. You'll be watching it on TV while your house burns down.
You've seen it all before. You're not the first to have burned this
way.

We have to destroy in order to create things to destroy at a
later date.

Sunday, February 23, 2014

I've nothing to say today. This has
happened before hasn't it? Nothing to say but still feeling compelled
to say something. A bit like a journalist. Have you ever asked a
journalist why they became a journalist? It's quite funny. You can
see faint wafts of smoke coming out of their ears. It's one of the few
questions they don't have an answer to. They have answers to lots of
other questions of course but even then they are the wrong answers,
which is fine because there are no right answers – not that a
journalist would know that. I always wanted to be a journalist
myself. 'Why did you want to be a journalist Mr. Fugger?' I hear you
fart out your mouth. I'll tell you why. I always wanted to be a
journalist so I could cut and paste press releases from PR companies
and then spend about ten minutes paraphrasing them and then get paid
for it. Why the fuck else would I want to be a journalist? It's hard
to become a journalist though. You can't just wander into the
profession. You have to have certain qualities. You have to be either
thick or dishonest. These aren't qualities you can pick up. You have
to be born with them. A big ego helps too. Dumb but confident, that's
the trick really – like a politician. Oh, and you have to be kind
of half able to write ...a bit. Only then can you be part of the
vanguard of chatter that is officially
deemed to be of interest. You go on about stuff like you care about
stuff and then you forget about stuff because there is some new stuff
to go on about. Then at the end of the year you compile all the stuff
in a list. Then, maybe, you can get a book out of all the stuff you
went on about. And then, if you play your cards right and don't have
a mumbly voice, you can get on a radio panel or TV show and talk about
stuff. Paraphrased PR company press releases will float from your gob and flow into the ears of the nation, psychically cementing a great
big narrative that will harden and become fact. Fact, resolute, grey,
bang your head against it, FACT!

You can also mention your favourite
bands a bit.

After about thirty years of journalism
your liver will pack in and you will die. Other journalists will
write about what a character you were and no one will mention the
article you wrote about sterilising the
longterm unemployed. You'll be buried in some graveyard and a nearby
yew tree will suck up your blood and bleed it out every time its bark
is cut. That's kind of romantic isn't it? A fitting tribute. It'll be
the first time you put your blood into anything.

Wednesday, February 19, 2014

Did I ever tell you that Hotel Fugger
was once called The Hotel View Hotel? Yeah, it was. The old name came
from the fact that every window in the hotel looked out onto another
part of the hotel. The architecture was inspired by Bentham's
Panopticon - no matter where you are you can be seen so you better
watch what you're doing because someone might be looking. This was
originally intended to prevent the theft of towels but the approach
soon grew into a philosophy of sorts or, to be more precise, a way of
'being'. The Hotel View Hotel was considered a true escape from the
world outside. Once booked in, the guests were encouraged to forget
about everything beyond the lobby's revolving doors. House rules
requested that conversation solely concern matters pertaining to the
hotel: the evening's menu, gossip about other guests, the beige
furnishings, the stale aroma, the mangy cat, the lack of toilet rolls
and so on. To discuss the world outside the hotel risked inviting
disapproving glances, mockery or even being sent to Coventry.

All books and periodicals were
confiscated so as to prevent the residents being distracted from the
residence. There was only the hotel - the stars and sun and birds and
trees, the clouds and continents and constructs of the outside world
vanished from the consciousness of the guests. The guests stopped
contacting the friends and family they had known before their stay at
The Hotel View Hotel. They quit their professions. They earned their
keep by working in the hotel.

Soon all the exits to the building were
sealed up. The only doors remaining were ones that led back in, which
didn't bother anyone because no one ever left. And so things
continued for a time and everyone was perfectly happy. Well, not
'happy' maybe but content or at least contentish. Well, they were
prepared to pretend they were contentish, let's just put it that way.
So, you know, it was as good a life as anyone might expect to live
and that was about as good a life as anyone expected. That is until
the food shortage. That's right, the kitchen ran out of food. Well,
it was bound to happen wasn't it? The guests/staff had even
discussed it. A concerned receptionist actually gave a presentation
about it in the function room. Our Incommodious Future, that's what
she called her lecture. Everyone listened and worried but no one did
anything. I mean, what could they do? Well, one guy suggested they
leave the hotel and go to the shops but he was dismissed as a crank.
'We'll eat the potted plants instead', they said and they did until
there were no plants and then someone proposed that they eat the
stationary and they did until that was all gobbled up and finally
they decided to eat toothpaste and soap and stuff like that and
that's how they were found - curled up, emaciated and blue, gobs
afroth with mixed toiletries.

So anyway, I got the place for cheap.
No one wanted to buy a sealed off multi-chambered mausoleum
so I bought it for next to nothing, renamed it and reopened its
doors. There's a weird vibe here I admit. A lot of dead prayers got
buried in these walls. Things are heard at night. The mangy cat is
sometimes seen. Some of the people that come to stay are purely here
in the hopes of experiencing something grim or even spectral –
expecting the dead to provide a new perspective on life. Most of my
guests are just here for the cheap rooms though. They aren't fussy.
They don't notice the heavy atmosphere because similar fugs have
enveloped them their entire lives. They are the lost and the wounded.
Sometimes they are those that seek to wound the lost. Sometimes they
are the lost who unintentionally wound others. Last night a guest
jumped to her death from an upper floor window and landed on another
guest, a murderer returning from a night's kill. Weird eh? Barely a
morning passes when we don't find an auto-asphyxiated onanist
dangling in a wardrobe or a broken necked drunk crumpled at the
bottom of a stairwell. I'm fair about it. I warn people before they
book in. They book in anyway. I think it's the irresistible draw of
defeat. A fatalistic surrender to a self-destined doom. Or maybe it's
the ultimate protest against the sheer effort required to imagine
things turning out some other way. Either way, the guests of Hotel
Fugger consider that there's no other way.

You'll find a skull
in the minibar and see a corpse in the mirror. The shower curtain is
a sheet of human epidermis. The flowers are plastic but they're all
dead anyway. A single room is only twelve fifty. Leave a tip near
your cold stiff body.

Right so, now that
that's done, I think we'll have a bit of a tune will we? We will,
we'll have a song...

Tuesday, February 18, 2014

A retired High Court judge will hold an
investigation. The conclusions of that investigation will be
presented to the Minister for Justice. The Minister for Justice will
then place these conclusions into his mouth and chew them into a fine
paste. Then the Minister will proceed to sculpt what remains of the
conclusions
into papier mache lumps and stick them under the desk in his office going
forward.

Thursday, February 13, 2014

Now, this isn't just about me but I am
asking that the dirty dirty dirty dirty dirty dirty dirty dirty
dirty dirty dirty dirty dirty dirty dirty dirty dirty dirty dirty
dirty rug munching arse pokers my gay brothers and sisters allow
me to express my views. You know, I am not just asking here, I am
actually imploring. Tears are rolling down my face as I type this
just as tears flowed from the eyes of my good friend John after the
death of Katy French. That's quite a lot of tears let me tell you and
some of them are genuine. Genuine tears, how very sad. You would weep
too if you found yourself barricading your
entire family into your house like Anne Frank or
the cast of Night of the Living Dead had to. This, of course, isn't
about me but the other evening Ben, my little boy, asked 'mammy, are
the people from the internet coming to get us', and I was forced to
say 'of course not love, we're just playing a game'. I was forced to
lie to my child and, unless it is an exercise in mental reservation,
a lie is a sin. I might go to Hell if I don't receive confession
before the event of my death. Imagine the irony if I ended up in Hell
as an indirect result of trying to save a dirty dirty dirty dirty
dirty dirty dirty dirty dirty dirty dirty dirty dirty dirty dirty
dirty dirty dirty dirty dirty heap of pox ridden poo baiters my gay
brothers and sisters from that same eternal damnation. How fair is
that? 'How fair' I ask you as salty Katy French tears spout from my
doleful ducts. The Doleful Ducts of Breda O'Brien. Hmmm, that might
be a nice byline for this piece ...but I digress, this isn't about
me. This is about the nazi queer war against preservation of
traditional values. Traditional values like the right of a child to
come into this world at the foot of a grotto via symphysiotomy and be
greeted by both a mother and a father and not two dirty dirty dirty
dirty dirty dirty dirty dirty dirty dirty dirty dirty dirty dirty
dirty dirty dirty dirty dirty dirty objectively disordered salivating
micky gobblers gay people.

These are my values and I only want to
defend them without being accused of
holding the prejudicial and discriminatory views that I hold. Let me
make it perfectly clear that I reject, with every fibre of my being,
the intolerance and hate that I seek to uphold with every fibre of my
being. When will people realise that hate is not hateful when it
comes from a loving place. My hate is a hate of love and there would
be more love in this world if people learned to hate my way. But this
isn't about me.

I'd like to conclude by thanking Mr.
Fugger for allowing me this space to express my increasingly
maginalised views. With the climate of hate that currently pervades the
communications landscape, myself and my fellow Iona sufferers are forced
to avail of any platform, no matter how pitiful. (No offence
to Mr. Fugger, RTE, The Irish Times, The Independent, etc.
etc. etc.).

Monday, February 10, 2014

I'm a great fan of the Gardaí and would be more than happy to help them with any inquiries but I'm not sure it’s right for
them to be hacking my emails. I expressed my concern to the justice minister and
he told me to inform the relevant authorities. I asked him who the relevant
authorities were and he said that the relevant authorities were the Gardaí. I asked him if he really thought that was a prudent action to take and he said he did. I said ‘what about if I
tell the Ombudsman instead?’ and the minster just laughed.

I didn't fancy going to the Gardaí to tell the Gardaí that I suspected the Gardaí of reading my emails so instead I went to see Boyler. Do you remember Boyler? You do, Kieran
Boylan. Yeah, mad bastard he was. He’s doing grand. He’s a big name on
the international haulage scene apparently. Anyway, Boyler is pretty tight with the Gardaí so I asked him if he’d have a word
with them. He said he was heading to the station to get his passport renewed
the next day so he’d see what could be done. He also suggested I might make a
gift of a few bottles of whiskey. ‘They love to have a bit of JD around’, said
Boyler, ‘they keep it out back where they store the old Heavy Gang tool kits,
lost penalty points and Kerry babies conceived by heteropaternal superfecundation.’

So, I went to the offie to pick up a few
bottles and then I headed up to the station to make my offering. ‘Did the
McBreartys serve you these after hours?’ I was asked.

‘No, I …no …I just wanted to….’.

‘Wanted to what?’

‘Wanted to let you know that I appreciate
the job you are doing and I…’

‘…and that you killed Sophie Toscan du
Plantier?’

‘No, Jesus, no, take it easy, Christ.’

‘You killed Christ?’

‘Pardon? What?’

‘You heard him lads.’

Well, I’m now doing a stretch for deicide
but the good news is that the Gardaí annual arrest quota is through the roof.
Apparently one God killer is worth several hundred drug busts. I’m really not
sure what I’m doing here but, in a funny way, I’m glad to have helped the Gardaí with their inquiries. As Boyler said when he
dropped in to visit me last week, ‘it shouldn't be long before that crowd from the Ombudsman Commission take a similar
attitude’.